


patron saint of lost causes

by moistworm



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:05:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24331762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moistworm/pseuds/moistworm
Summary: “Michelle said you’re hiding a bunch of injuries or something, so… I think I got everything covered? As long as you’re not bleeding out or something. Please don’t be bleeding out. I can’t do stitches.”alternatively: peter doesn't walk away from the vulture unscathed, but he's got people in his corner.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 24
Kudos: 158





	1. (always been more) comfortable in chaos

**Author's Note:**

> if this looks familiar, it's bc it was posted about a year ago under a different name. i deleted it due to personal issues, but i'm uhhh back so hey what's up. did some editing, gonna go a different direction, am older & wiser etc *finger guns
> 
> i don't remember how to do this anymore lmao but nyello 
> 
> anyway, cw for injury descriptions n language. title is from st. jude by florence & the machine, a true masterpiece,

_another battle never won / & each side is a loser / so who cares who fired the gun? _

— st. jude, florence & the machine

//

Things start to shift, albeit miniscule, after Toomes.

The problem is: Peter doesn’t shift with it; he doesn’t know how. He steals concealer off May’s dresser, because his healing factor is great—but not that great—after claws sink into his chest and beat him mercilessly against sand. Bruising is stark under the curve of his eye, and his ribs are still knitting themselves back together. He looks a mess. Easy to blame a bully at school, but May is already spending more time pacing the apartment after the ferry incident, so it’s easier to smear the sticky substance on his skin and work with that.

It settles into his pores, he blends it with the pad of his finger, and it—works, sort of.

 _A mess_ , he thinks dully. _A fucking mess_.

Like the beach; like the plane; like Liz’s whole life, now.

//

He goes to school the next day, and Ned corners him in the library, where Peter’s taken up sanctuary instead of heading to first period early.

“Dude,” he starts, stops, tongue clicking against his teeth. Peter wonders if the concealer is oxidizing on his skin, because make-up is just a chemical compound and his skin is a reaction to that. “You good?”

And with Ned, it’s so, so easy, and some of the weight—the ash, the rubble, the metal and rebar and dampness—lifts off the cracking of his ribs as he mutters, “Yeah, man. I’m fine. We’re going to be late.”

“Yeah,” Ned echoes, and he helps Peter pack his bag, doesn’t comment on the stiffness of Peter’s joints, or how each movement is a stilted heartbeat. “You know I’m here, right? Like, the… _Spider-Man_ stuff is cool, but Peter Parker is my best friend, and I’m here. For whatever.”

He kind of wants to cry, but the library is starting to fill with seniors in desperate need of printing out their last-minute essays, so Peter just hooks his arm through Ned’s and mumbles, “I know, Ned. Thanks.”

//

“You need to find one that works on your skin,” Michelle tells him, perched against the locker next to his, and Peter stares absently into the void that is his chemistry book leaning against the metal. “Otherwise you’re just going to look like you fucked up your suntan.”

Peter snorts, and he’s not one of those people to have a mirror in his locker, because the less time he spends looking at his reflection, the better. “Didn’t take you for make-up,” he says instead. Michelle shrugs.

“I don’t wear it,” she explains, and her thumb smudges over the bruise, where the concealer is probably coming undone, where it’s most likely tinted and disgusting and doing a shitty job of concealing anything. “Often, anyway. But it’s art, and I like art.”

“Yeah.” That makes sense, he supposes, and her touch stings and the bruise is trying to fade, but it’s not, and his lip took up priority because there’s hardly a tear where Toomes’ wing had caught his skin and tore. “It’s my aunt’s.”

Michelle hums, and she writes down a series of letters on a piece of paper from her sketchbook before ripping it out and shoving it into his locker. An explanation: “It might be too pale, but you’re probably cool undertones, and May is warmer. You don’t get punched at school, so whatever you’re doing after that, you’ll probably need it.”

He doesn’t understand what he’s staring at: _elf camo concealer medium sand neutral undertones - $5_

“I said probably,” she deadpans, arms folded across her chest, and he really, really doesn’t understand. Michelle takes pity, says, “Alright, Parker. You and me, Walgreens. This Saturday.”

There’s no hostility in her tone, no room for argument, and Peter—well, Peter’s had it rough the last couple of weeks, and he loves Ned, and he loves May, but Michelle is staring at him with the sort of disinterested honesty that she gave him at the party before biting into buttered toast.

“Okay,” he says, grabbing the paper and his chem book from his locker. “Saturday.”

//

Flash catches him as soon as he escapes Spanish, barreling into his shoulder hard enough to hurt a year ago, but now it’s just irritating to his ribs.

“So, Penis,” he drawls, and Peter bites his tongue, regrets not washing off the concealer at lunch. “Heard you left Liz standing on the floor, and now she’s moving. That bad, huh?”

There are a million and one things Peter wants to say— _you have no idea, you don’t understand, you’ll never understand, have you gone through fire to save a man who tried to kill you?—_ but he just rolls his eyes, shouldering through Flash in an effort to get to his locker.

“Wow, touchy subject,” Flash snaps, and a hand grabs his bicep, nails digging into his arm, and it’s not claws or metal, but his brain short-circuits anyway. “When’s the coming out party—”

“Fuck _off_ ,” he bites out, and the sand is hot and burning from plane fuel, and blood is gagging his throat, and he doesn’t mean to push Flash so hard, but it’s enough to have Flash slam into the floor. Enough to have Flash winded, cradling the back of his head, and the only consolation, Peter will think later, is that there is no blood on the floor, even as Flash stares up at him with wide eyes and Peter mumbles a stuttered, “I—sorry, I didn’t—”

He runs.

//

His feet carry him to the bathroom, where he promptly locks himself in a stall and panics for eight minutes and twenty-three seconds.

He times it on his phone. Marks it down.

Ned texts him six different times, asks him what the hell happened, because Flash and his friends are already spreading rumors about how Peter’s losing his mind and probably abusing steroids, considering he gave Flash— _flash, peter, of all people!_ —a concussion. Fucking fantastic, because now he has to explain that away, too, and Peter never hits back, but he did this time, and that’s—that’s great.

That’s really, really great.

“Shit,” he swears, fingers shaking over his keyboard, and he texts Ned back hastily.

 **peter** 1:58PM  
pushed him by accident  
allit sawas

 **ned** 1:59PM  
morita is looking for you man  
you know flash. hes eating this shit up.

 **peter** 2:00PM  
I know

He has to face the music eventually.

//

“Parker.” Principal Morita sighs, and Peter fidgets in the chair; the cushion is still soft, and he hasn’t been here since Mr. Stark took the suit away, so he’s done a fair job of avoiding trouble. “We need the full story.”

Peter shrugs, because yeah, he gets it. “I know,” he says, and his phone is buzzing in his pocket. “It was an accident. Didn’t mean to push him.”

“Thompson is accusing you of abusing steroids,” he says firmly, and Peter feels the blood drain from his face, because he thought maybe Ned had been exaggerating, or that the rumors were—well, rumors, and not reaching this far, and Flash is an asshole, but this is— “So, we have to open an investigation into this.”

“You can’t be serious,” he manages, and his bottom rib— _floating_ , from biology class, he remembers—gives a twinge as he shifts forward. “I wouldn’t—I’m not on _drugs_!”

Morita scrubs at his chin, and flips through Peter’s file on his desk, open with a stack of his records, his grades and teacher’s reports, and he was a good fucking student, before the bite, and now he’s here, and he misses Ben so _goddamn much_.

“I believe you,” Morita says, and Peter inhales sharply, the office air stifling in his lungs. “But we have to follow protocol.”

The words spill out before he can stop them: “Please don’t call my aunt,” and Morita looks so pitiful for him, like he’s a charity case, and Peter regrets ever speaking.

“You know I have to,” Morita tells him, slamming the folder shut.

//

May is called out of work, and Peter is sitting inside of the office with his hands in his lap, and his thumbnail is bleeding from the skin he’s pulled off.

“Hi, honey,” she breathes, her bun falling out of place, and the look she gives Morita is not one of sympathy. “What’s this about?”

Peter’s throat isn’t working, and he doesn’t want to be the one to tell her that he’s being accused of being a drug addict anyway, so he keeps his mouth shut; he’s not even sure what’s worse—that he’s _being_ accused, or that Flash thinks it’s funny to joke about something like this.

They took his backpack. He gave them his locker combination.

He has his web fluid bottle in his bag, unmarked, but his suit is still in shreds, so at least there’s that.

“—arker? Peter,” Morita is saying, and Peter snaps his gaze back up, sees the two of them staring at him. May is flushed with fury, and it takes a moment to realize it’s not at him. “Care to explain your side of the story?”

And he’s not accusing, not really, because Morita just sort of talks like that, but it’s condescending all the same, and Peter is tired, a bone-deep _ache_ that settles so sweetly within him that it burns.

“You know what?” he grits out, and May’s hand is on his arm but he shrugs her off, and it’s not fair to her. “Where were you when Flash pushed me down the stairs at the end of term last year? Or when… when he nearly…”

His eyes burn, and he won’t show weakness here, not in front of Morita, or May, who’s been through enough in the last couple of weeks alone because of him, so he stomps out of the office, careful not to slam the door behind him, and ignores the calls of his name.

//

 **ned** 3:52PM  
dude may is losing her shit  
where are you??

 **ned** 3:56PM  
come on man

//

His phone flashes: _You have five (5) missed calls._

//

It’s when Michelle calls him that he bothers to pick up, because Michelle never calls and he’s sitting outside of a café nursing a bottle of water that he managed to buy with a crumpled up five-dollar bill in his back pocket.

“Hi,” he says dully, twisting the cap off with one hand. “Is this Michelle or did Ned steal your phone?”

There’s a beat of silence, before: “ _It’s Michelle, but my friends call me MJ_.”

Peter laughs a little wetly at that, and the old man sitting behind him gives him a funny look, which Peter dutifully ignores as he says, “Does that make us friends?”

“ _Dunno, Parker. I don’t offer just anyone make-up advice,”_ she says, and Peter rubs his thumb along the wrinkled edge of the bottle. “ _Listen, I’m not calling to snitch. Just wanted to make sure you’re not thinking about jumping off a roof, or something.”_

The way she says it is—well, he’s too tired to figure it out, whether or not she knows, and he’s not sure he cares right now, and that scares him a little. He _needs_ to care. But he’s exhausted, and his ribs ache, and the scar on his thigh is tight from where the skin wound itself back together a little weirdly.

“I’m okay,” he decides on, which isn’t a complete lie. “Um, just… I’m not on drugs, for the record. Steroids. Clearing that up.”

She snorts on the other end of the line. “ _If anyone’s on drugs, it’s Flash. Don’t worry, Parker. Just don’t do anything stupid.”_

With that, she’s gone, and Peter stares down at the phone in his hand and the string of beeping coming from the speaker of a line gone dead.

//

It’s late when he makes it back to the apartment, and May opens the door before he has the chance to knock; she must have been listening for his footsteps.

“In,” she demands, and he doesn’t hesitate, toeing off his sneakers at the door and throwing himself down on the couch. May wanders the kitchen, and he categorizes what she’s doing: kettle, mugs, teabags, pouring. Five minutes finds her pushing a steaming mug into his hands, which he accepts blindly, because his body is on autopilot and she’s simmering with barely contained anger and worry that he’s the root of.

He breathes in, is about to offer an apology, but she holds up her hand. “I don’t want to hear it. Apologies, excuses, whatever. You stormed out of the _principal’s_ office. You ignored your phone. Ned couldn’t reach you, I couldn’t reach you. It was _Michelle_ that told me that you were safe.”

 _I won’t snitch_.

Technically she didn’t, and he’s not mad. Doesn’t feel much of anything, except for the stickiness of the concealer sitting awkwardly in the creases under his eye and the cracks of his cheek.

“What the hell is going on, Peter?” she asks, and Peter sighs.

“I’m not on drugs,” he mutters, and May rolls her eyes, hands curving over her hips. “I’m _not_.”

“No, you’re not. I never thought you were.” Her tone is softer, and something like relief is pooling between the damaged floating rib and the broken false rib. She exhales sharply. “Thomspon. He pushed you down the stairs—why didn’t you tell anyone?”

There’s a lot he hasn’t told her, a tightness of secrets like the smattering of bruises under his shirt, and he can’t start now, can’t begin the unwinding process when the pull-tab is buried somewhere in the remains of his suit. “The teachers don’t care,” he mumbles, shrugging. “The bullying, that stuff? It’s nothing. It’s stopped. I pushed him by accident, and I guess he assumed something, and now we’re here.”

The lies come easy, and May looks more exasperated than anything, and he’s awful for doing this.

“Peter, I need answers,” she says, a little desperately, pushing her glasses to the top of her head. “I thought we were… I thought you were doing _better_. What’s going on, baby?”

 _I don’t know_ , he thinks. Says, “I’m alright, May. I promise.”

She just smiles at him, a lot sad, a little disappointed, and hugs him like he’ll break, like he hasn’t already in five different places on a beach on Coney Island.

//

It’s only when he’s tucked away in bed, staring up at his ceiling, does he realize May never asked about his bruises.

//

He’s suspended for three days for the altercation, and a week of detention for storming out of the office.

Flash gets a warning, according to Ned’s sources.

It checks out.

//

It’s boring as hell, because May places him on house arrest; he can watch television, he has internet, he can do whatever he wants inside, but he’s not to step foot out the door. Punishment that fits the crime that he technically didn’t commit, and she’s downright murderous when it comes to Morita, but there’s nothing she can do unless Peter comes clean.

He doesn’t.

Ned keeps him updated on classes and what’s going on, and Michelle— _MJ_ , he corrects—attempts damage control, though he doesn’t care much about that, either. It’s hard to rectify the fact that a few weeks ago, he had told Ned that he was above high school, and now he’s suspended despite his best efforts to be a _good fucking student_.

Winning isn’t quite in Parker Luck territory, he supposes, digging out a frozen dinner from the back of the freezer and tossing it into the microwave. It’s barely noon, but Peter’s hungry and May is working a double, so unless he wants to eat it later, he’s saving his culinary skill for the afternoon when he’s fending for himself for dinner.

His ribs ache. The bruises aren’t fading anymore, and his healing is apparently taking a vacation, because even breathing is agony, and he’s gone through half a bottle of Advil since waking up, and his metabolism eats through it so quick it doesn’t _matter_ , but nothing else dulls the pain. The microwave dings, and he grabs a bag of peas for good measure, wonders if maybe he should consider calling Mr. Stark just to make sure he didn’t puncture a lung or something, but basic biology has at least taught him that he’d probably be on the floor dying by now.

God, he’s tired.

The frozen dinner isn’t cooked through, and he tosses it back in. His wrist gives a twinge at the movement; the knob, just where his arm and hand connect, and it’s abnormally swollen. There aren’t any gaps in his memory, but his body is sore, and he hasn’t patrolled since the beach, so _what the hell_.

May has a body-length mirror in her room, and he ditches the nuggets-and-fries to slip in, shedding his sweater and pants to explore what _should_ be healed by now.

It’s not. It’s very much not, and his ribs are protruding a little, and his left collarbone is swollen, and the jagged, frantic cuts that litter his chest and arms are sluggish to close. His legs are bruised. His thigh is still scarred, where rebar had punctured, and his right wrist is probably broken, then, and that explains why he’s chugging Advil like it’s water.

“Shit,” he says to himself, and his reflection just—stares. The bruises look the worst on his cheek, under his eye, where the blood vessels have burst into black, and he hasn’t slept in days. “Cool. Okay.”

Concealer isn’t going to be enough.

//

 **peter** 12:43PM  
Any advice for bruising that may be worse than the bruising you saw

 **mj** 12:45PM  
yeah.  
i'll have a list for saturday.

 **peter** 12:46PM  
Thanks for this btw you don’t have to

 **mj** 12:47PM  
stop getting punched.

//

He finds some gauze in the bathroom first-aid kit, and tenderly wraps his ribs; it’s more from what he remembers of school training, though he’s not sure if it’ll make a difference with his healing factor. Better safe than sorry. The cuts don’t look infected, but they have some antibacterial cream that he slathers on anyway, and it stings like _hell_. He throws on band-aids.

There’s nothing he can do for his face, other than wonder what he’s going to tell May if she asks.

//

The frozen tray ends up in the garbage, and he doesn’t bother with dinner because eating takes too much effort. He spends the rest of the day in his room, idly perusing the web on his laptop while trying not to accidentally overdose on painkillers; his liver will flush them quick enough, but the pain doesn’t cease and any movement jars his injuries real fucking bad, and he’s experienced pain before, but not to this extent.

Peter had nearly been torn in two by a ferry. This is a visceral pain, one that crawls up his limbs and aches behind his teeth, like it’ll crack him if he breathes too hard.

His phone buzzes sometime around eight, and the number is familiar, but he doesn’t answer it.

Doesn’t have a name. He can’t stretch out his shoulder.

Not his problem.

//

May comes home around midnight, but Peter feigns sleep long enough that she only comes in, presses a kiss to his forehead, and stumbles back out.

She doesn’t turn the light on.

//

Saturday, and he can get out of bed without wanting to hurl himself into the streets, which is great, but his face looks like Flash slammed it into a locker, so.

The bathroom has a blue make-up bag in the back of the medicine cabinet with old, abandoned palettes May doesn’t use anymore, and Peter used to go through them when he was young and curious, and now he’s young and a lot beat up; there’s a single tube of concealer that’s slightly paler than the one May uses, and he has no idea what MJ means by warmer versus cooler, but.

His eye is a fucking disaster, and his cheek is an explosion of goddamn stars, and he doesn’t wax poetic because his fingers are nimble and he’s constructed of equations and formulas, but it’s hard not to when staring at something so messy.

Before he can psych himself out, Peter grabs his phone off the counter and sinks against the wall, pulling up her contact; his ribs are in a constant state of ache-sharp-jostle that he’s not even sure if he’s feeling it anymore, or if it’s just the natural order of things, and his collarbone is knitting itself back but the swell of it under his sweater is—wrong.

“ _Peter,”_ MJ drawls, and she’s lively and awake at eight in the morning, “ _if you’re cancelling on me—”_

“No, no.” He laughs, a choked noise, and he curls his fingers against his thigh, watches in strange fascination as his wrist twitches with the movement. Uneven. The ulna, maybe, but if it’s his wrist, then it could be any of the eight bones, and that would be awful. “No, um… God, this is stupid. I’m trying a lighter concealer—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” she interrupts, not harshly, and Peter lifts his gaze from his hand to the bag sitting sprawled of its contents on the counter. “ _If you want to get something that actually works, you’ll want a blank canvas. Don’t bother.”_

Oh. Yeah, that makes sense, and he asks, “Anything else I should… know?”

MJ is quiet for a few moments, though he can hear rustling on the other line, what sounds like a wallet being shoved into a bag, before: “ _Well, depends. How far are we going down the rabbit hole? Liner, some palettes? I’d say blush, but you got that covered—_ ”

“MJ!” he cries, laughing, and his ribs protest at this but her snort of echoing laughter on the other line is worth it. “No, I think just concealer. I think. I don’t really know how to go about covering bruises, you know?”

“ _Well_ ,” she says dully, and a door shuts in the background. He should get dressed. “ _Like I said, Parker. Stop getting your ass kicked.”_

She hangs up on him—again—and he swallows thickly, wondering why it took him this long to acknowledge her as a _friend_.

//

“This is… overwhelming,” he admits, wrinkling his nose at the display, and MJ rolls her eyes at him, and Peter withers a bit. “In my defense, I don’t wear make-up, and when I _did_ , I was like… _ten_. And May helped me, and I was curious—”

“Peter,” MJ mutters, hiking the strap of her purse over her shoulder so it rests on the curve of her hip. “Chill. It’s just make-up. It’s not gendered, and I really didn’t take you for the kind—”

Peter splutters a bit, because he doesn’t really care about that, and MJ quirks an eyebrow at him as he says, “ _No_ , I get that, oh my God.”

“Words.” She pats his shoulder, and his collarbone twinges, and he’s in an oversized sweater that definitely hides the absolute worst of it, but the grimace of pain doesn’t go unnoticed. She doesn’t call him on it, simply says, “If you’re not worried about your ‘image’ or whatever, what’s the problem?”

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans, he nods to the _Maybelline_ display, an overabundance of lipsticks, eye shadows, eye liners; says: “Honestly? I have no idea what the hell I’m doing, MJ. I just needed something to cover up a few bruises.”

“A few bruises,” she repeats, and he glances at her, sees the way she’s eyeing the slant of his cheek, and he fidgets under her stare. “Peter, you look like you were in a plane crash.”

_Burning fuel and ashes and—_

“I got punched,” he tries, and MJ’s deadpan stare of disbelief and mild offense has him sighing in defeat. Shoulders hunched and grinding his teeth through the onslaught of jostled agony _that_ brings, he asks, “What do you know?”

MJ folds her arms over her chest, and she’s in a hoodie and a pair of jeans, hair tied at the base of her neck, and she willingly ventured out on a Saturday morning to help him pick out concealer to cover up his secrets. She’s not accusatory when she murmurs, quietly, “I know that you and Ned are horrible at lying, and that you apparently have a thing for tights.”

This is the part where he should panic, backpedal and spit out excuses, because the look on Ned’s face upon finding out has been burned into his memory, and Tony had deduced it so quickly, and it can all come crumbling down so, so quickly, but MJ is—she is, inherently, MJ.

“Yeah,” he breathes, and the world tilts on its axis, and his ribs are shifting where they shouldn’t, and she locks her thin fingers around his good wrist. “When did… how?”

“Washington,” she tells him, and he exhales slowly, resting his forehead on her shoulder. She doesn’t push him away, just pats the back of his head in sympathy. It’s nice, he decides. “You know, Parker, I’m a lot better at secrets than Leeds. Jesus.”

He snorts into her sweater, and people are giving them a wide berth, so that’s great, and he mutters, “Yeah, well. I didn’t tell him. He, uh, caught me. Dropped our Death Star, too.”

“Nerds,” MJ says, and her fingers are sweetly soft where they flutter at the base of his neck, and it gives him enough time to compose himself and straighten out his spine. She lets him, though she stays wrapped around his wrist, and he intertwines his fingers with hers.

She looks at him, an expression of fond exasperation, and he says, “I, um… touch. It’s…”

“Grounding,” she finishes, and he nods, and she squeezes his hand, and she understands and Ned’s been the only one who has, other than May, and that’s—it’s important. “You’re weird, Parker. A good weird.”

He laughs, and she’s smiling, and they’re standing in front of a display of too much make-up for him to comprehend when he replies, “Yeah, well, you buttered toast in the middle of a house party.”

“I was hungry.” She sniffs, giving his hand one last, reassuring squeeze before letting go to kneel down and assess the labels, and it’s—okay.

//

As it turns out, he definitely has cooler undertones, and he learns what that means with MJ prodding at the good side of his face while she chases away any eager salesperson trying to upsell them.

“God, you’re so white,” she tells him, and Peter blinks at her, smudges of various shades lining the inside of his arm. “I’d say… yeah, we’ll go with this one.”

“Sure,” he offers, nodding along, and she rolls her eyes while grabbing a fresh tube from the back of the row; it’s the e.l.f. one she had mentioned, and they have a basket with vegan-branded foundation, which also has _sun_ protection, apparently, and make-up has come a long way since he last checked, and it’s _a lot_.

“Blending sponges.” She grabs his hand, guides him towards the end of the aisle, and he stares at the plastic cases of pinks and purples. “You’ll want to wet them first, but you look like you’re about to have an aneurysm, so I’ll link you to some beauty tutorials.”

“You know,” he starts, reaching for a pack of three—small, medium, and large, and they look simple and soft enough, and the pink is a nice color. “They could have nicer designs. Like… superhero sponges. Imagine doing your face with Thor sponges?”

MJ grabs the package from him, reading the brand and whatever else is important, Peter figures, and nods in approval. “Yeah, well. Things are slow to change. Should try and get a patent for Spider-Man beauty blenders.”

“I can try,” he teases, taking the package back and tossing it into the basket. It’s beginning to wear on him, and MJ gives him a _look_ , and she takes it without warning, earning a spluttered, “He—”

“I told you,” she says breezily, turning on her heel, “shit liar. Let’s go.”

He follows her to the front of the store, and he has his wallet but not a whole lot of money at the moment, and MJ doesn’t hesitate to throw their loot onto the belt: three different types of concealers, the foundation, the beauty sponges, and MJ’s own selection of drug store make-up that she wants to test, and it takes him a moment to realize she’s mixing their purchases.

“What—”

“You’re my experiment,” she explains, the cashier working through their purchases, and MJ pulls out two twenties to cover it all. “So just go with it.”

No other option, because the total comes to $38.93, so he just nods and takes the bags before she can protest, and she loops her arm through his broken one, and he wonders how much she’s figured out—what’s broken and fractured within him.

“So,” MJ says casually, popping a piece of candy into her mouth, “warning you now: we’re going to Ned’s.”

She offers him a piece, and he opens his mouth to argue before artificial watermelon is bursting on his tongue.

“What,” he manages, but it tastes really, really good, and she’s grinning at him, and the sun is high in the afternoon sky. “What if I was allergic to watermelon? Or candy? Or… I don’t know, diabetic. That could be a thing.”

“Peter, we shared a bag of these in gym last year,” she says dully, and Peter chews the candy, vaguely recalling the hot, awful period spent outside, before the bite, the two of them hiding under the bleachers because Peter’s asthma had been chokingly real and MJ had cramps.

He clings to her a bit tighter, and she eats another candy, and he says softly, “You could’ve… I dunno. We didn’t make it easy to be friends with us, did we?”

“I’m not easy to be friends with.” She shrugs, reaching over to tap his cheek, and he sticks out his tongue so she can give him another piece of candy, and this one is blueberry. “You are. Emphasis on _you_.”

They’re close to the bus stop, and the sidewalk is crowded at this time of day, but it’s easy with MJ, the same way it is with Ned, and he still feels bad for a wasted year. “I don’t know. Today was pretty fun, and Spider-Man at least has some good one-liners.”

“Spider-Man gets his ass kicked, and then has Peter Parker come to school with a beat-in face,” MJ deadpans, and he glances at her, sees the tick in her jaw, and she sighs before repeating the process: tap his cheek, stick a candy on his tongue, and it’s raspberry. “You talk to anyone about it?”

Peter resists the urge to shrug, and they stop at the shelter, a myriad of people waiting around them, and his voice is lowered when he murmurs, “Ned, sort of.”

“May doesn’t know,” MJ states, and Peter shakes his head. MJ sighs so heavily, Peter half-expects her to let his arm go, but she merely steps closer, a barrier between him and the crowd, and says, “Well, you’ve got two in your corner now. Let’s see if we can fix your face.”

//

They share his phone and his earbuds on the bus, and she takes over his Spotify, creating a shared playlist between the three of them that Ned opens almost immediately. He obviously knows they’re on their way, which Peter isn’t sure how to feel about, but they listen to some Queen and David Bowie and she holds his hand to steady him, and it’s—well, it’s nice.


	2. (might've been) a nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tysmmm for the response last chapter. this fic is... a lot closer to me now than it was last year, & i feel like i can do a lot more w it now. boi have times changed. also very au after homecoming bc endgame? doesn't exist? also i love far from home but i'm sorry mj knew all along u can't tell me otherwise sry 
> 
> cw for injury descriptions & abuse of medication, though accidental. 
> 
> stay safe ♥

_i had a dream / i got everything i wanted / not what you'd think / & if i'm being honest / it might've been a nightmare / to anyone who might care_

— everything i wanted, billie eilish

//

“I don’t get it,” Peter mutters, staring at the screen in a mix of apathy and horror, and MJ digs through their collection on the bed. “Why is this so complicated?”

“You’re literally setting the curve in physics and chemistry,” MJ mutters, tossing him the tube of concealer. Peter catches it without looking. “How are you this confused by make-up?”

Ned emerges from the hallway, stockpiled with a first-aid kit and a bottle of Tylenol, and says, “This is the same Peter that thought mascara went on the eyebrows.”

“Wow, man.” Peter gives him a half-hearted glare, settling back against the mountain of pillows on Ned’s bed, and MJ tucks her legs under her and pushes the laptop away and pauses the tutorial; it’s apparently one of her favourite artists, though had sworn them both to secrecy, and Peter is still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that people can do make-up this easily. This _well_.

This _naturally_.

“Alright,” Ned starts, tossing the kit and bottle into the mess of cosmetics, “Michelle said you’re hiding a bunch of injuries or something, so… I think I got everything covered? As long as you’re not bleeding out or something. Please don’t be bleeding out. I can’t do stitches.”

Peter gives MJ a hurt look, but she’s resolute in her eyebrow quirk, and Ned takes a seat on the edge of the bed as MJ says, “You’ve been in pain all day. You obviously won’t go to the hospital, so at least let us help.”

“Besides,” Ned says absently, snapping open the kit, and Peter doesn’t have the heart to tell them that a few band-aids aren’t going to fix his bones, “the sooner we do this, the sooner we can have a Brooklyn Nine-Nine marathon.”

“I hate you both,” Peter declares, just for good measure, but it comes out as more of a watery confession and MJ pats his knee. “Just… um, it looks bad? But I heal quick, and it _is_ healing, but when you take a building and, uh, I guess an entire plane to the body, it tends to do some damage so please don’t freak out because if you guys freak out, I’ll freak out, and—”

“That’s so much to unpack,” Ned whispers, looking horrified, and even MJ is looking a little rough around the edges, and Peter breathes in sharply, regretting bringing it up at all. “Like… building? How—no, okay, nope. First we deal with the… the stuff.”

He waves towards Peter, and Peter worries at his bottom lip before slowly shrugging out of his sweater; he doesn’t need to look down to know that his chest is a map of that night: from the school, to the warehouse, in the air, to the beach. MJ’s quick intake of breath and Ned’s low whistle is heartbreaking, and this is why he didn’t want to _show them_.

“Okay,” Ned begins, clapping his hands together. “Okay. Okay, alright. This is… this is fine. This is fine.”

“Ned,” MJ snaps, and Peter can’t breathe, and this was a _mistake_ , either of them knowing, and there’s a soft touch to his cheek. “Hey, Parker, you’re okay.”

“This isn’t okay,” he whispers, and he needs them to understand why this is dangerous. “This—you… you _knowing_ , this…”

The bed dips next to him, and he focuses on that, of familiar warmth and Ned’s body as Ned says gently, “Yeah, um, Spider-Man is… he’s cool, but I told you, Peter, you’re my best friend, and I care about _you_ , so let’s take care of that, okay?”

“I _am_ Spider-Man,” Peter implores, a need for them to—to _something_ , he doesn’t _know_ , but they’re anchoring him, and Ned is holding his hand and MJ is stroking the back of his neck and that’s good, that’s alright. “It doesn’t… it doesn’t go away, just because I’m not wearing the suit, and people are _out_ there, who know—”

“Including us,” MJ interrupts, and there’s a swelling ache in the back of his throat. “So, you know, you gotta deal with it. But not alone.”

Ned brushes his thumb over Peter’s knuckle, a shadow of their handshake, and says, “Yeah, man. Heroes doing shit alone never ends well.”

“So cheesy,” Peter offers, and the ache blooms into a sob that bursts from his chest, and MJ lays her head on his shoulder and Ned drapes an arm over him and he can’t stop it now, and he doesn’t bother trying, because it’s been days since homecoming and when he closes his eyes, he sees rubble and claws, and when he’s awake, his body is the catalyst of that, and his two best friends are here, holding him together—

“You’re a goddamn disaster,” MJ mutters, and Ned’s laugh is wet, and Peter tastes watermelon and blueberry and raspberry between his teeth instead of blood. “An absolute fucking disaster.”

Ned nods against him, a vibration Peter feels straight through his bones, and says, “Michelle, I officially love you.”

“Good.” She sniffles, and Peter’s chest is damp, and his body is so, so sore. “About time.”

//

They migrate into the bathroom, because at least three of Peter’s cuts are infected, and the lighting is better.

“My dad is overseas still,” Ned explains, shutting the door behind him. “And my mom is in bed.”

“May knows I’m here,” Peter reassures them, after sending a flurry of texts to her about his impromptu sleepover arrangements, and she’s mostly just relieved that he’s getting out of the house again. “So… all bases covered. I think?”

MJ hops up on the edge of the counter, laptop on her knees, and brings up a video on cleaning out deep wounds. It sounds disgusting, and Peter makes a face as he leans over the counter, Ned flanking MJ on the other side with the first-aid kit spilling its contents by the sink.

“Okay, I don’t have anything like _that_ ,” Peter points out, eyebrows raised, and MJ tilts her head at the video. “I mean, I did, but they closed up.”

Ned stares at him, and Peter stares back, and MJ is staring at the morbidly fascinating video that Peter can’t bring himself to look at anymore.

“Did you… did you clean them?” Ned asks, and Peter knows that Ned knows the answer. “You… Oh my God, Peter, _why_ are you like this?”

“I don’t have the same reaction to germs anymore,” Peter mutters, scratching the back of his head, and Ned rolls his eyes. “Hey, I know my own body! Mostly. Sort of. It’s… It’s complicated.”

MJ, poking the gash on his bicep that’s swollen and inflamed, says, “Yeah, definitely,” and Peter hisses through his teeth at the contact, point duly noted.

“Okay, I don’t _usually_ get infected,” he mumbles, taking a seat on the closed lid of the toilet, and Ned twists off the cap of the Tylenol bottle and shakes out two. Peter holds out his hand and says carefully, “Yeah, um, I need about half that bottle.”

“Dude, I’m not assisting your suicide,” Ned gets out, disturbed, and MJ finally peeks over the laptop to spare them some attention.

And yeah, that’s an absolutely fair reaction, but Ned’s gone two shades paler than he should be and MJ is judging him and Peter is sitting half-naked in his best friend’s bathroom with his two best friends, and his body is—well, he has at _least_ three broken bones and counting, and he hasn’t had painkillers in almost an entire day, and Ned is withholding them.

“I have a fast metabolism,” he explains, eyes darting between the two of them. Abject horror is morphing into curiosity, so that’s good. “Like… I process things really, really quick, and that includes medication and stuff.”

MJ hums, and Ned shakes out a few more pills before giving up and just handing the bottle to Peter, who takes it with a grin.

“I went through an entire bottle of Advil yesterday,” Peter admits, MJ reaching over to fill a paper cup with water. “It did, like, nothing, but I was able to move—”

“Peter, what the _fuck_ ,” Ned whispers, and even MJ whips her head around, and it’s Peter’s turn to roll his eyes because _this_ is what they wanted to get themselves into. “That’s… can’t you talk to Mr. Stark? Get, like, super-powered pain meds?”

At the mention of Tony, Peter shifts his gaze to the floor; Tony hasn’t tried to contact him, and neither has Happy, and the contents of the plane are safe, so Peter’s done his job, and that’s all that matters. He’s not upset about it, he’s _not_ , and Tony’s made it pretty clear that Peter fucked up.

Besides: it’s not Peter’s fault that when he tried to be the good student, his date’s dad turned out to be a goddamn bird suit-wearing psychopath who tried to murder him.

Instead, he says: “Tylenol works, I just need a few extra,” and MJ passes over the water none-too-happily.

He counts out six, which definitely aren’t going to be enough but MJ and Ned still look vaguely traumatized, and swallows them down, dropping the paper cup into the waste bin by the toilet. He’s not entirely sure where they can even begin, but Ned’s already lining up a bottle of antiseptic, some gauze, and cotton bolls, and Peter is regretting everything up until this moment.

“This really isn’t necessary,” he tries, but MJ shoots him a look that has him clicking his teeth together, and she nods in satisfaction.

“Cleaning,” MJ declares, snapping the laptop shut, and she slides off the counter and grabs a clear tube with a gel in it that he _totally understands_. “I’ll work on your face.”

She holds out a compact mirror that he fiddles with, and Ned pours some of the antiseptic onto the cotton, and the bathroom already begins to smell with it that his nose picks up too easily, but MJ is tilting his chin towards her. It’s fine, because he’s here with them, and they’re taking care of him, and it’ll be okay.

“So,” she starts, tucking a curl behind her ear, and she uncaps the black lid. “You’re not, like, drowning in pores, and yours are actually pretty small. This is a primer, and it’ll help the concealer and foundation actually stick to your face.”

Ned is dabbing at the cut on his bicep, and it stings like _hell_ , but Peter nods and pretends he’s following. MJ huffs, says, “Dude, ask questions. I’m not coming over every morning to do your make-up.”

“Oh, _please_ make him do drag,” Ned mutters, and there are tweezers in his hand. “Consider it payback for Washington and… this. All of this.”

“I could rock drag,” Peter says offhandedly, and he’s not that squeamish, and Ned isn’t either, considering their late-night horror movie marathons, but the sensation of metal digging around in his arm for debris is a little sickening. “I draw the line at wigs, though— _ow_ —the mask is hot enough, makes my head itchy— _Ned_ —”

“Stop _moving_ ,” Ned snaps, and Peter braves a look, sees blood welling, and the cut really isn’t deep at all but it’s inflamed and Ned is stricken with a furious determination. “I’m your guy in the chair, Peter, not… not your nurse in the bathroom, okay? My mom’s the nurse, not me.”

“You really didn’t clean this shit at all, did you?” MJ asks casually, and a damp sponge—the smallest pink one—is being dusted across his cheek.

He shrugs, because that wasn’t exactly a priority, and says, “I showered. With soap.”

They _stare at him_ , and Peter brings his legs up onto the toilet and refuses to look petulant when he says, “Okay, _listen_ , when you get… _smacked_ around by a giant dude in a mechanical wing-suit, you kinda just want to go nap, alright? I wanted a nap, I took a nap, don’t look at me like that.”

Ned, clicking his tweezers in irritation, mumbles, “This is why Mr. Stark named a protocol _Training Wheels_.”

“ _Ha_ ,” MJ snorts, capping the tube and tossing it onto the counter, and Peter gives up on any semblance of dignity within these walls. “We need our own protocols.”

Peter admires MJ’s work in the small compact, but there isn’t much of a difference—his cheek is still a burst of blood vessels, though maybe smoother, and Ned hums before: “Yeah, actually. Peter’s reckless as hell, and I _really_ don’t want to do this again. So, like, protocols. Good call.”

“It fills in your pores,” MJ explains, seeing Peter’s confusion, and Peter debates between calling them out on mocking him or the fact that she’s filling in his skin. Weird. “We’re not doing traditional full face here, just cover up.”

She’s got the foundation in her hand, and the cap on _that_ comes off as she says, “And yeah, protocols. Like if Peter is beaten half to death, we call an adult.”

“Isn’t filling in pores bad for your skin?” Peter mutters, staring at his reflection. His arm is basically numb at this point, which is fantastic, and the Tylenol is kicking in, which will only last for maybe fifteen minutes, but Ned is sticking the gauze over the cut so: progress. “The only adults that know are Mr. Stark and… like, Happy, so. Good luck with that.”

“You wash your face after, dumbass.” MJ squeezes some of the beige liquid onto the medium-sized sponge, and Peter’s first thought is: _that’s gonna stain_. “Shouldn’t Stark be watching you? What’s the deal with that?”

Peter keeps his expression neutral—like the foundation, the concealer, the divider between him and Happy in that car—as she pushes it gently into his skin, and he explains softly, “He… uh, took the suit away. So, I haven’t really talked to him in a few weeks, and I wasn’t supposed to go out at all? And I wasn’t, but when I showed up at Liz’s…”

He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, MJ pausing only for a second before she begins to work on his other cheek, and it’s not bruised, but that’s alright, too.

“He opened the door,” he whispers, and Adrian Toomes stares back at him, and he’s holding a corsage in his hands for a crush he’s been nursing for months, and it’s harmless but Toomes is not. “I recognized him from the ferry, and like, what are the odds? Being Liz’s dad, and I don’t think he knew who I was at first, until we were in the car on the way to the dance…”

Ned tapes his arm, sits back on the floor; MJ isn’t prodding at his face anymore and the contact is sorely missed, but: “I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, until he threatened… my family, and, y’know, gave the bad guy speech after Liz went in, and that was it. My old suit was under the lockers, and I couldn’t just… let him go.”

“You looked like shit,” MJ tells him, and she sits herself on the edge of the tub, and it’s not unkind. “When I saw you through the door. Thought you were going to throw up.”

“That’s why I followed you out,” Ned finishes, and Peter laughs, shakes his head, stares at his hands that are shaking in his lap, and Toomes is behind bars, and Peter is _okay_. “Can’t be the guy in the chair if you’re… you know, dead.”

Peter swipes at his eyes, and Ned shoves toilet paper under his nose without messing up the first layer of make-up as Peter mumbles, “ _God_ , crying is dumb.”

“No, perceived masculinity and expectations of men are dumb,” MJ says, wadding up some damp toilet paper and dabbing under his eyes. “Cry all you want.”

“Uh—what, no, not that.” He waves a hand vaguely, and some raw nerve is exposed like this, a livewire that needs to be cauterized. “I don’t… it’s been almost a year that I’ve been like this, and I don’t really talk about the—the bad stuff, I guess. This is the worst of it. The _bad_.”

Ned curves his fingers over Peter’s knee, looking exponentially more sad than anything, and shrugs. “Man, you can tell us anything, yeah? Don’t—don’t hide in your room and wrap some shitty bandages around yourself and call it fixed. If this is the _bad_ , then…”

“Let us deal with the bad with you,” MJ says simply, and his floating and false ribs are still broken yet mending, but there’s a spill of warmth swelling in the hollows of his lungs, too. “But, also, this primer is twenty bucks, so try not to ruin it.”

Peter’s eyes widen, and he _almost_ grabs at his face, the weight of the conversation not so heavy anymore as he breathes, “MJ, _why is it on my face_ —”

“Drama queen.” She sighs, tossing the abused toilet paper out, but she’s smiling and Ned is squeezing his knee, and Peter would much rather hyperventilate about the cost of the stuff on his face than—well, anything else. “Now, shut up and let me fix… _this_.”

//

Later that night, the three of them are cocooned in Ned’s king-sized bed, and Peter has at least three blankets claimed just for himself and three-quarters of the bottle of Tylenol in his system.

“I’m waking up my mom if you overdose,” Ned mutters, and he’s unhappy about it, and so is MJ, but Peter spent too long bent awkwardly in the bathroom and he’s paying for it. “Like, fast metabolism or not, that can’t be healthy.”

Peter, tucked between the two of them and feeling safer than he has in days, just shrugs, and there’s no sharp jolt of agony that winds itself around his collarbone and flares up his shoulder; the Tylenol is working. He mumbles, “Yeah, well, I only have to do this like… once. Ish. There was the time Cap and Ant-Man beat my ass in Germany, but that was just a few busted ribs and a black eye.”

“Your life is fucking weird,” MJ says, cracking open her laptop and exiting out of the wound-cleaning video, and she brings up Netflix to start Brooklyn Nine-Nine. Peter grins, and it’s soft and a little wobbly, and his face is scratchy from tears and make-up remover and bruises and MJ teaching him how to layer, and it’s entirely worth it.

“Our life,” he corrects her, Ned propping up his chin on his hand, and he glances down at Peter with that familiar fondness. “You guys can still back out, you know. Just give the word. ‘ _Hey, Spider-Man, you’re too weird and dangerous, we want nothing to do with you—‘”_

“Shut up, dude.” Ned laughs, slinging an arm over Peter’s middle, and MJ sets the laptop carefully on Peter’s chest, and then she’s got her head on his shoulder, and his phone is buzzing where he dropped it on the floor coming out of the bathroom, but he can’t bring himself to grab it.

Ned and MJ are warm, and he’s safe, and for now, that’s enough.

//

Two days later, he’s apologizing to Liz in the hallway, and she’s crying, and guilt is eating at him and chipping away the four layers and hour of work on his skin, and she’s still so sweet as she says, “Whatever’s going on with you, I hope you figure it out.”

Then she’s gone, and yeah, it’s his fault, but Ned loops his arm through his and drags him away before he can think too hard on it.

//

Flash finds him before practice, and Peter has so, so many things he wants to say, his locker a mess from the search, his every move still on watch from Morita and his teachers, but as soon as Flash opens his mouth to speak, MJ steps in front of Peter and snaps, “Get in the library for practice before I find a reason to get you kicked from the team.”

Flash sneers, offended, and Peter blinks as Flash says, “You can’t do that—”

“And you can’t start rumors about people doing drugs, yet here we are,” she states, and Flash pales enough for Peter to notice. “Also, steroids? Really, Thompson?”

There’s a beat of silence, and Ned arrives from the pool of lockers to flank Peter’s other side, and Flash only offers a meager, “Well, Penis’ sudden burst of strength isn’t a fucking fluke, okay? He’s on something.”

“Fuck off, Flash,” Ned bites out, and he’s outnumbered three-to-one, which has never stopped him before, but he disappears into the library anyway.

“Um,” Peter says intelligently, and MJ snorts at the look on his face, and Peter loves them both. “You know, steroids could explain a lot, actually. The sudden strength, heightened senses—”

“Shut up, Parker,” MJ mutters, dragging him into the library, and Peter laughs as Ned holds him steady.

//

MJ is made captain, and Peter’s clap is genuine, and he meets her eyes when she says, “My friends call me MJ.”

“I thought you didn’t have any friends,” Ned teases, and the whole team supports her—this, Peter knows—but the way she averts her gaze, then flicks between the two of them, Peter can’t help but smile.

“I didn’t,” she says simply, and unspoken: _I do, now_ , and Peter holds this close to him, because he’s well-acquainted with being the outcast, but he’s had Ned for years, and now MJ has them, and she should have much, much sooner.

And his phone is buzzing, but this time it’s a simple text— _Come to the bathroom_ —and it’s ominous as shit, though he has a feeling he knows who it is. He’s out of the chair before he can think twice, and MJ is _looking_ at him, and he stutters out an excuse, and he’ll have to explain later, and they’ll understand.

They watch him go, and Peter doesn’t look back.

//

Forgiving Happy is second-nature—simply: there’s nothing to forgive.

“We can stop somewhere,” Happy offers, brisk yet kind, and Peter rubs at his nose with his sleeve, is comfortable where he sits in the back. Not as awkward as Germany, but there’s an undercurrent of _something_ , but he’s so, so tired. “You eaten today?”

“Yeah, um, lunch,” he says, laughing a bit, and Happy quirks a brow at him, an attempt at trust—Peter knows he looks horrible, but he’s handling it. Not alone, either. It has to count for something. “I’m good. Thanks, Happy.”

A beat of silence, not nearly as heavy.

(he can breathe again.)

“Just let me know, kid,” Happy tells him, and Peter gives a nod.

(this is progress.)

//

Tony’s arm around his shoulders is forgiveness and apology, and Peter tells him no to his offer, because too much is at stake now. Tony chastises him for ignoring phone calls, thumbs in a contact in Peter’s cracked phone, and tells him, in no uncertain terms, “If you need something, you call. You’re bad at communication. If you want to stay low to the ground, that’s fine, but you still gotta hone your skills. Good?”

“Okay,” Peter says, and he grins, and he’s still holding himself together, but it’s a little easier.

//

Upstate is nice, he decides, but Queens is home, and his friends are home, and May is home, and he’s still young.

(this is… healing.)

//

And then this: there is a paper bag on his bed, in Tony Stark’s handwriting, and Peter slips into it because it’s been too long, and he’s high on adrenaline and shock, and it’s a good, good day. It fits so well, a perfect cling to sore muscles and weaving bones, and Karen is alive and bright in his ears when he has the mask on. It’s perfect, in the only way Tony can make something so _perfect_ , and things are looking up.

He pulls the mask off, and there’s a shrill yell of, “What the _fuck_ ,” and his old suit is in a heap of bloodstains on his floor, buried under dirty clothes and old books, and May has, inadvertently, yanked on the thread, an unraveling of secrets in his closet.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu @ [twitter](http://twitter.com/23andbees) & [tumblr](http://23andbees.tumblr.com)


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